


Hubris

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Food Issues, Hallucinations, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony would call it bad luck but, lets be honest, it was probably a long time coming.</p><p>Or: Steve tries to find Tony and realises some things along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this chapter is all Tony POV, includes non-graphic torture and also non-consensual drug use at the beginning. Also, withholding of food and water.
> 
> Next chapter is Steve and lots and lots and lots of comfort. All the comfort. An avalanche of comfort. You might actually die in the amount of comfort coming up.
> 
> But not in this chapter. This is just the 'Hurt'.

It was hot.

Tony was vaguely aware of that fact. He was also vaguely aware that he was moving; it didn’t really make sense.

Everything. Was. Very. Slow.

He felt, simultaneously, like he was going to melt, or maybe spontaneously combust, because the heat was being sucked into his every pore, his entire body a mass of sweat and other fluids he didn’t want to think about.

He didn’t know how long he’d been travelling, someone kept topping up the dose of whatever it was they where giving him every time they stopped. He didn’t know who, he didn’t know what, he didn’t know _where,_ although he was pretty sure this was a car trunk. 

Like he said: Everything. Was. Very. Slow.

He remembered being taken. He had been at a shareholders meeting, the gunmen had entered and he had—

Why had he gone with them, again?

He couldn’t remember. He was tired. And hot. And so, so thirsty.

He wondered if people were looking for him, if his team were looking for him. Someone, anyone. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been gone, he kept blacking out, but he knew he hadn’t left the trunk because he can remember, at certain intervals, fresh air being let in and the drug re-administered. Sometimes, it would be day, and he would be able to catch glimpses of light from behind his blindfold. Most times, it was night.

He was scared, too. It was difficult for him to feel much of _anything_ with what they’d dosed him with, but he was still aware enough for all his senses to be telling him _wrong,_ and _no,_ and _danger._

He was supposed to be getting his helicarrier propulsion plans in today. Obviously, it was going to have to wait.

Tony lets himself fall asleep. Or black out. Either way, he lets darkness take him.

 

* * *

 

Until the trunk is opened and he’s dragged out.

He falls to the floor and the first thing he registers is _heat,_ actual _burning_ on his exposed flesh. He gropes the ground, head fuzzy, hot and thirsty but as weak as a kitten, and shuffles, tries to escape the feel of the blistering, dusty ground.

Which is when the blindfold is yanked off and he’s almost blinded. He yelps, undignified, and hits his head on the back of the truck he was taken in. He’s still drugged, the shapes in front of him blur and he keels over, face first onto the ground.

He gasps at the feel of the furnace-like earth, how he feels like his skin is being roasted, and watches the steel toed boots that swim in his vision go from one pair to two to three and back to one.

He throws up; or, he retches, and bile come out.

He’s so thirsty.

And he’s being picked up, two hands under his arms and dragged, feet trailing on the ground, and normally he would protest at being handled like this, he would say something cutting, or witty, anything to show that he wasn’t scared, or was defiant, but he knows that the drug has made him loose, unable to hide and slow and that he’s throwing up like there’s no tomorrow, which in fairness, there might not be, because you don’t not feed a guy or give him water for however many days and then drag him out into the desert to keep him alive.

It’s marginally cooler when they reach the threshold of a wooden shack. Everything here is dusty, everything is is covered in grit and sand. Tony is sweating, his entire body soaked and his dress shirt is clinging to his body. He pants are torn at the bottom from where they were raked against the ground and his shoes scuffed from the dirt.

He’s dumped, unceremoniously, on the rickety wooden floor. It creaks under pressure and Tony becomes aware of the threadbare carpet stained with blood that’s rough against his fingers and directly in his line of view. He lies there, focuses on his breathing, on not throwing up, on his thirst, doesn’t try and think about where they might do to him, all the ways the could hurt him or the indistinct murmur of their voices in the background.

Things are swimming in and out again when he’s rolled over, squinting and dizzy, and water is pressed to his lips. He drinks hungrily, revels at the wet feel of it down his throat, the _relief_ at having his thirst quenched and drains an entire bottle until he runs out of breath, coughing and spluttering, and is left to roll back onto the carpet.

He can’t quite muster the strength to roll onto his back so he lets himself flop onto the carpet, just breathing, trying to stall the nausea, waiting for whatever it is they’ve got planned. It’s pitiful, he knows, they haven’t even tied him up, they’re just _waiting_ and he’s really tired so he’s kinda just going to let the voices wash over him and hope they maybe forget he’s there.

But then there’s a sudden lull in the conversation that even Tony hears. It’s the sound of a car being cut out front, a door swinging open and banging shut, the click of heels on the floor and the voice, nasal and high and irritating that drawls a long “hey, Tony!” that forces him to open his eyes.

What he wants to say is _you’ve got to be kidding me_ or _are you fucking stupid?_ but all he gets out is a choke and a whine and then he’s vomiting the water he’d just downed.

“Aww, shit,” someone says “he’s gonna choke.”

And then he’s being turned over onto his front and he has the immense satisfaction of getting to finish his vomiting fit all over Justin Hammer’s patent leather shoes. They’re very shiny, Tony notes deliriously, very well maintained, that must be difficult in this climate—

A fist in his hair; Hammer crouches down to draw up his head.

“Hey, Tony,” he repeats with a smile “long time no see.”

Tony tries to tell him to go suck a dick but his mouth is slack and his voice is hoarse and instead he just coughs weakly. 

Hammer lets his head fall, his chin cracking painfully against the wood and he give a low groan, one ear pressed to the floor.

Hammer sighs “You know, this, yeah, this isn’t working for me, can we have him up here? Thanks,” he sees the leather shoes move out of his vision “it’s fucking crazy, I can’t see shit, thanks Morgan just put him up here,” and then he’s being lifted by his shirt collar, dragged to a ragged, dusty, blood-stained and come-stained couch and he can’t do shit about it, his limbs have turned to lead, he’s exhausted, Christ, he hasn’t eaten and he threw up everything he drunk, he’s just about ready to pass out.

Except Hammer doesn’t buy that, and he draws up a chair, sits in front of him, grinning madly. In fairness, if their positions were reversed, Tony would probably be feeling the same way.

“You hungry?” He asks, still grinning “I can get Marco to fix you something up. I, personally, will be eating this,” and then a small table is brought over by one of the men, a plate of spaghetti steaming on top and a cold glass of water with, oh God, _ice,_ he wants _ice,_ “but I might be able to get you some leftovers or something.”

And then he bursts out laughing as if he’s said something _hilarious._ He continues laughing even as he tucks a napkin into his suit collar, rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. He’s actually still chuckling softly as he twirls some spaghetti on his fork and shovels it into his mouth.

“So, I was thinking,” he says, mouth full, sauce flying “if I could have anything in the world, and I literally mean _anything,_ what would I have, right? I mean,” he wipes his mouth with the edge of his napkin “some people, they’re shallow, Tony, they’re not like you or me, you know?” He places a hand on his chest, gestures with his hands “I mean, we? We’ve been fortunate in life. But these guys, they have nothing. So, I’m rotting away in that lovely jail,” he spoons more spaghetti into his mouth “and I’m just going by day-to-day when I get pretty friendly with my guy over there, Morgan. And he says, ‘Hammer, I like you. I’m gonna get you out of here,’ or he said something like that, the details aren’t important,”

He takes a drink from his iced water and Tony drools, whatever moisture is left in his mouth trickling out the side.

“— And anyway, he’s getting out a couple months later. And a week after that, I get a guest, and he says, hey, I’ll get you out if you make me some, you know, _products,”_ he tilts his head in Tony direction in some kind of twisted companionship “and I say ‘sign me up!’ except then it all went tits up and he ended up doing a life-sentence in maximum security. But not before I was declared officially dead. So my point being, is, my friend Morgan here asked ‘if you could have anything, what would it be,’ and voila, here we are.”

He holds out his hands, gestures around the little shack in the middle of the desert with no air conditioning and holes in the wall.

Wow. Hammer is living the high life.

“So, I’m going to have some fun with you.” Hammer continues “We’re gonna play some games,” he grins, and then shrugs “and when I’m bored, I’ll let you go. Or have my men kill you. Either way, doesn’t matter to me.” And he shovels more pasta into his mouth, the sauce staining his face obscenely and flecks splattering Tony.

“I mean, it’s no fun bringing you so far down only to kill you. Once upon a time, I thought I was gonna beat you in business,” he snorts “look, Tony, I’m not an idiot, okay? I know how I’m gonna take you down and it’s gonna be the good old-fashioned way.”

Tony breathes. He gathers all his strength, every single bit left to him, and with supreme effort manages to raise an eyebrow.

Hammer smiles, picks his teeth. “You must be thirsty, Tony, you want some?”

Yes, he really does.

“God, it’s so _cold,_ you know? Actually, can I, hi, Morgan? Yeah, can I get more ice, thanks.” He grins at Tony as the glass is filled to overflowing with freezing, cold, ice, oh God, he could really do with that, he would kill for that. He would never eat again if it meant getting some of it.

“Mmm’” Hammer gasps as he drinks some down “wow, that hits the spot. It’s so hot out here, you know?”

Tony lets his eyes close shut. He doesn’t want to play Hammer’s mind games right now.

Except then he throws the water on his face and he has no choice but to gasp awake, blinking, dazed, but still so tired.

The ice feels good, regardless.

“You tired, Tony? You thirsty? You’re probably hungry, too. Say, you want some pasta, maybe? What can I get you?”

Tony blinks languorously. “Fuck you,” he wheezes and Hammer grins.

“You know what, this is going to be fun. I can just feel it, Tony.”

 

* * *

He doesn’t let him sleep.

After that first moment, Tony is dragged outside, stripped, and washed down with tepid water. It’s unpleasant, and embarrassing, and he’s so tired he just flops on the ground, but he does get to down some water while they spray him and it feels good to be relatively clean.

Except then they lead him to a tiny room adjacent to the main shack and Tony knows that it’s not going to be anything good because there’s a rope with a noose hanging from the ceiling and he wonders if maybe they’re going to kill him anyway, despite everything.

But they don’t, they tug him up so he stands on his toes, and secure the noose around his neck. It’s long enough that he can stand but short enough that he’s kept on the balls of his feet. To stand normally would be to tug on the noose and consequently strangle himself.

And then they leave him. In the room thats five feet by five feet, struggling on his aching feet, hands tied behind his back so he can’t lean on the walls for support.

He’s so tired.

It gets colder at night but the air is still warm, still humid, just not as torturously so. Tony is slowly melting, he can feel it, he’s constantly veiled in sweat, he feels like he’s liquifying. His feet are on fire, too, he can’t support all his weight on the balls of his feet for this long, it’s impossible, there’s nothing to even hold up his heels but letting go would mean dying and that he doesn’t actually want to do. He won’t give Hammer the satisfaction.

It’s dark, and the room is tiny. It’s practically a box. Tony can _feel_ claustrophobia creeping up on him, the rising sense of panic that being locked away induces. He’s not going to be able to do this every night. He can barely do it on this one.

He shifts, still standing on tiptoes, and wonders if maybe Hammer will let him go soon. If he doesn’t really mean to keep him hear all night. When he was first tied it was still late afternoon but now it’s pitch black, he’s been trapped for hours.

Tony is not petty, or foolish. He does not have a sense of pride that overrides the need to survive. He will do what he needs to to get out of here alive and mostly sane.

He’s really, really thirsty though.

He chokes when he flattens out his feet, when he can’t do it anymore, and his breath cuts off, suddenly, panic inducing, and he scrabbles on the rickety ground, breath hitching, face purpling, until he painfully, impossibly, manages to lift himself back onto his toes. It’s ten times more painful as the blood that had begun to return is once again cut-off and Tony feels the bruises that are bound to be forming.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t do this. He needs out.

Someone will come. Somebody has to find him. Hammer can’t be _this_ competent, he can’t actually manage to avoid the FBI and SHIELD and the CIA and whatever else they set on him. 

Unless he actually is.

Tony’s face crumples, from sheer exhaustion, and the heat, and the pain and although no tears fall, he balances precariously on his feet, constantly shifting and trying to keep straight, to keep balance, as shudders wrack his body.

At one point during the night, he tries lifting one foot up, balancing on only one, but the pain is unbearable and he nearly chokes where he falls

It’s impossible, the whole situation is impossible, Hammer is going to kill him, he’s going to black out and _die,_ Hammer has to know that, he has to feed him eventually, let him sleep, otherwise he won’t have a trophy to send back, broken and humiliated.

It’s a surprisingly comforting thought. 

He learns that, if he leans back enough, he can support his spine on the wall. It doesn’t take the weight off his feet, but it does help a little, and he’s in no place to complain.

Eventually, the sun begins to rise.

 

* * *

“So did you sleep well?” Hammer gloats “Because I slept great. You thirsty, at all? Hungry?”

Tony balances, exhausted, bone-tired and gasping, but he nods anyway, because he needs to eat, needs to drink, otherwise he is going to die.

Hammer giggles and fishes out a bottle, tilts Tony’s head back so he can dribble it into his mouth, slowly, and it’s not on purpose, he’s actually doing him a favour because any faster and Tony would choke.

“Was that fun, Tony? Did you have a good time? I know it’s not quite what you’re used to, but,” he shrugs “we’ve all got to make do, you know?”

Tony hates the way he’s always questioning, how every statement is phrased as if expecting an answer. It’s infuriating.

Hammer reaches for the noose around his neck, tugs it clean off and Tony sets himself onto his feet only to find that they don’t support him at all and he just collapses, lies half in the shack half out, sprawled out. He can’t believe the pain in his feet, he knows that if he were to look at the he would find torn, blistered skin and bruises and it doesn’t help that the ground is already beginning to heat up, burning his skin. There’s no protection out here, he has no clothes, and he doesn’t think he can ask for sunscreen. Tony is naturally tanned but out here he doesn’t like his chances.

Hammer sighs but Tony doesn’t bother looking up. Now, now, he can sleep, he can shut his eyes for just a moment and —

“Ah ah ah, Tony, we have a busy busy day ahead of us, no time for sleeping in,” he can _hear_ the snide grin “we need to get you some breakfast and then — Ah! Thank you, Morgan,” and there’s something being set down by his head except he doesn’t want to look, he just wants to close his eyes and _sleep,_ is it so much to ask for, what did he do to _deserve_ this, God.

“Tony, you can eat this now, or you can go hungry till sunset. Your choice. But I feel like I should let you know you’ll be doing a _lot_ of walking today and porridge is a slow release food. I think. I don’t actually know, nobody eats porridge.”

Tony cracks his eyes open, he’s half out of the wooden shack and lying on the burning earth. His hands are still tied behind his back and there is gruel in a chipped, dirty bowl to his left.

He needs to eat. He can’t not eat.

He lifts his chin, shifts to the left. He can feel Hammer’s eyes trained on him, watching his every move, watching as he lowers his mouth into the bowl and mouths at the sloppy meal, watches as it spills on his chin and even his nose, how he eats like a dog because he doesn’t know when the next meal is going to come and he doesn’t want to die here.

Tony takes it all, every single _disgusting_ drop and bears Hammer’s hysterical laughter, how he slaps his thighs with crazed amusement and shouts incoherently. “Oh my God, oh my God, look at you Tony, holy shit, I can’t believe you actually _did it,_ I was expecting, well shit, I don’t know, I didn’t think it would be that _easy—”_

Tony ignores him, closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

* * *

For at least five minutes, because when he wakes up someone has dragged him out to where the car sits and they’re kicking him until he opens his eyes.

Tony groans, squints up at the sun, what now, what could it _possibly be,_ when is his team going to get here, are they going to get here, maybe Hammer is better at covering his tracks than Tony realises, maybe they’re not going to find him, they _are_ in the middle of nowhere—

“Up, Tony, up up up,” and somebody, not Hammer, somebody actually strong is lifting him to his feet. He flinches, whines and his face crumples with pain. He rocks back on his heels, he can’t walk, he can’t, he can barely _stand,_ the ground is burning him and he moans, low, and shuffles, tries to keep his feet off the ground but he’s too weak and they’re too scarred and bruised and damaged so he falls forward, briefly holds himself against the truck but then falls anyway, absolutely unable to hold himself anymore.

“Get up,” someone, probably _Morgan,_ says dispassionately “I ain’t got time for this, get up or I kick your ass, your choice Stark."

Hammer giggles from somewhere else.

Things are fading in and out and there are black spots in front of his vision. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go on.

But he hauls himself to his knees anyway.

“Stand up,” Morgan orders and Tony shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he hisses “I can’t, I haven’t _slept,_ you can’t expect—”

He’s hauled roughly to his feet, and held there, soles burning, until he gets some semblance of balance. And then he’s shoved.

“Walk,” is the command given.

He puts one foot forward. It’s slow, it’s aching, and he barely manages it. Once he does, he has to pause to get his balance back anyway, and it’s painfully slow going.

But eventually, he begins to move away from the shack.

He begins to walk.

He hangs his head as he staggers, he doesn’t know why he’s being forced to do this, he doesn’t understand what Hammer could be getting from forcing him to walk naked through a desert. His hands are still cuffed behind him and he stumbles on his feet, his knees threatening to buckle at every stage. He’s too weak to be doing this, too weak, he hasn’t slept, God, he just wants to sleep although he’s a bit scared he won’t wake up again.

He focuses on not falling and he hears the truck start up behind him, Hammer at the wheel, following him slowly as he lurches on the scalding ground.

His feet have actually become numb; or rather, they’ve become one mass of pain, one huge lump that’s so bad he’s stopped feeling it. That happens, he knows. When the body takes too much pain the brain can block it out.

The sun is rising higher in the sky and he is getting hotter and hotter and hotter. He feels his skin begin to burn under the rays but what can he do? So he just keeps his head down and keeps on walking.

He feels sweat run off his skin, feels it pool in his clavicle, in a crevice. 

He’s so hot.

He’s in so much pain.

The sun climbs higher in the sky.

He doesn’t know where he is, anymore. The truck still follows him but when he turns, Hammer just presses the horn, and he can’t see the shacks anymore.

He’s becoming delirious with the heat, with the dehydration.

At one point, Steve is walking beside him and Tony takes comfort in his presence.

It hurts when he remembers he’s not real.

He swallows but nothing goes down.

The sands scrapes against his abused feet.

The truck stops, but Tony doesn’t notice. He just keeps walking.

“Hey Tony,” Hammer calls, even though he doesn’t hear. 

One foot in front of the other.

He’s been leaving bloody footprints

“Tony,” he says again, stands in front of him and he nearly walks through him until he realises, finally, that he needs to stop.

He blinks, frowns. Hammer holds out a bottle.

“Drink.”

He opens his mouth and Hammer let’s him take it all. Although it helps with the thirst dramatically, he now feels tired. Too tired.

He can’t walk anymore. Now that he’s stopped, he doesn’t think he can go on.

“Move,” Hammer says “we’re going back.”

Tony frowns. “Why?” He rasps.

Hammer jerks “Because I’m tired, why else, come on, get moving,” he says impatiently.

Tony shakes his head slowly “Why?” He tries again.

“Because I _hate you,”_ Hammer hisses with vehemence.

Tony closes his eyes, shakes his head one last time “Why _walking,”_ he says “why.”

Hammer shrugs, smiles “Why not?”

 

* * *

That night they tie him him the smaller shack with his arms above his head. It’s uncomfortable, but easy, and he’s so tired it doesn’t matter anyway. Being able to take him weight on his arms is a blessing compared to his abused feet and he falls asleep fast.

 

* * *

Too soon, they’re waking him up and water is being forced down his throat and gruel choked down. Hammer watches everything as Morgan chains his arms behind his back, leads him to the truck.

Tony doesn’t understand. 

He is marginally stronger today, probably because of the nights sleep and substantial offering of breakfast. He’s still dehydrated, still exhausted, but he can think clearer and thank God for small mercies.

His feet. Tony hadn’t had a chance to look at them but he can _feel_ where skin has be been flayed, from where it had stuck to ground and been ripped from his sole. Where his heels and toes are bruised, burnt and swollen. It’s crippling, he doesn’t know how they expect him to walk, he can’t _stand_ anymore, but Hammer is just giving him this leer of a smile and Tony really wants to smack it from his face but he can’t, can he, so he lets himself be dragged.

He doesn’t doubt that people are searching for him. He’s sure that they’re looking. He just doesn’t like his chance, out here, in the middle of bumfuck. He’s on the border somewhere, maybe even over it, maybe he’s in Mexico, he doesn’t know and he’s not exactly in any space to ask.

Hammer loves this. He loves that he’s got Tony weak and powerless and unable to fight back. Tony holds no illusions that he’ll be able to get out of here on his own. Maybe, maybe, if he could get his hands on that truck. But then he’ll be driving, aimless, and chances are in his current condition he wouldn’t last a day.

He’s so fucking _hot._

His lips are chapped, dry and chafing. He runs a dry tongue over them in an attempt to garner moisture but his tongue sticks, lifts dry skin from them painfully and he remembers that he has no moisture left to give.

He wonders if they’ll find him before it’s too late. 

He’s dragged to his feet and he doesn’t bother holding in a hoarse shout at they make him take his weight on his feet. They’re starting to burn all over again and he shakes his head, falls to his knees, tries to explain with choked words that he can’t walk anymore, he can’t, they’ll have to find some other way to torture him.

Then again, it wouldn’t be torture if he couldn’t stand it.

Morgan silently lifts him back to his feet and Hammer climbs into the truck. No exceptions. He has to walk.

“If you don’t get moving there won’t be any dinner tonight,” Hammer says lazily, lighting a cigar and tapping on the wheel “stand up.”

Tony staggers to his knees, panting. He’s dragged up once again and this time he stays on his feet. He winces, gasps, and tries to find some position, any position, that will take the weight off, will give him some relief, but he _can’t_ and he curses Hammer, curses him, he’s going to kill him.

As soon as he’s rescued. Definitely.

Tony cries out when he takes his first step. He is heavy and infinitely weary and the burning pain that pressing his swollen, blistered feet onto molten earth causes is easily enough to make he scream, flinch back.

But then he swallows it down and begins to move.

One foot in front of the other, learning to walk all over again, he can do it, it’s easy, easy, babies do it all the time.

He feels perspiration that he can’t afford to lose roll off of his body.

He walks.

One step, two step.

Lifts each leg, puts it onto the ground.

He can do this.

(He really can’t)

Hours drag past and he just keeps moving, one foot in front of the other, pace thumping and slow. He stops being able to tell where the sky begins and the desert ends. It stretches on, endless, infinite, and he’s never going to be able to rest.

Steve comes back, walks steadily beside him. “Come on, Tony,” he says softly “you just hold on, Shellhead. We’re coming for you.”

Tony nods, it’s difficult to talk with dust in his throat.

“You just keep walking, don’t stop, Tony, you won’t be able to get back up, you know you won’t. You can’t stop now, Tony.” His voice is earnest, hopeful, everything about Steve that Tony loves but would never admit to and he uses it a lever to hoist himself forward, to pull himself, make himself walk.

“I’m tired,” he mumbles “my feet hurt too bad, Steve.”

“You keep on walking and we’ll find you, Tony. We’re already looking, Hammer’s left clues. We’ll find you and you’ll be okay.”

He blinks grit from his eyes, stumbles “Will I get sleep if I walk?”

“Sleep _and_ water _and_ food, Tony. Burgers and coke and fries and pies, all of it.”

Tony smiles “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bet you are, Tony. You just don’t give up now, don’t you give up.”

“Who you talking to, Stark?” Hammer’s nasal whine cuts through his delusion and Tony feels like screaming in irritation. If the man is going to torture him at least let him have this, at least let him have Steve.

He continues plodding forward, and hears the truck cut out behind him.

“I said, who you talking to?”

Tony shakes his head, keeps walking because Steve was right, if he stops now he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to start again.

Hammer swings him round, brutal, fast, and he loses balance, falls flat on his face. He whines into the dirt at the burning that spreads up his torso, his legs, and struggles to get back onto his charred and scarred knees.

“No one,” he rasps “it wasn’t real.”

 

* * *

“You thirsty, Stark?”

His hands are tied behind his back, linked to a loose chain that’s hammered to the outer wall of the shack. There had been no walking today and Tony would have been grateful for the reprieve if it hadn’t meant that he hadn’t been fed or watered and had been left outside in the burning sun as it climbed higher and higher in the sky, reaching it’s sweltering peak and leaving his skin cooked to a crisp.

Steve had not come back.

“What’re you willing to do for this water, hmm?” He says, softly, almost kindly. He’s mocking him. He hates it, he hates this, he hates that _Hammer_ has the upper hand and that Tony Stark, once again, has fallen to the weight of his own pride.

Tony looks at him with sullen eyes. The answer is ‘a lot’, but he’s not going to tell Hammer that. Although he suspects he already knows.

It’s a cold glass. There’s ice floating at the top. Condensation trickles from the curved glass, drips steadily onto the sand.

Tony shuffles forward on his knees as Hammer takes a step back.

“Ah ah ah,” he chimes “it’s not going to be that easy, Tony. Tell me what you’d do for this water.”

He wants him to plead and Tony is not above it. He needs to survive.

He coughs, blinks grit from his eyes, forces his mouth to form the word:

“Please.”

Hammer looks at him, considering. Then, he takes a drink.

He gasps, licks his lips, which he can do, because he is hydrated and Tony is not.

He closes his eyes “Please, Justin,” he rasps “let me have some water.”

Hammer’s eyes narrow “Say you’re stupid.”

“Please, Justin, I’m stupid, let me have some water.”

Hammer grins, wide “Say you’re _worthless.”_

Tony swallows, even though nothing goes down.

“Please, Justin,” he croaks “please, I’m stupid, I’m worthless, let me have some water.” 

Justin sighs, presses air through his nose and crouches down, water held tantalising close. Tony presses forward, he can’t help it, his lips move automatically towards the water even as Hammer draws it back and he loses balance falls forward and—

The water is poured into the dirt by his face.

He bites his lip and tries not to sob.

“I hate you, Tony,” Hammer says “I hate everything about you. I hate that we did the same thing, but you got better sales, I hate that you treat me like I’m scum because I try to do what you do but I don’t have the same intelligence, I hate that we had the same start in life but you got ahead because you were a fucking _ass,_ you were a evil _cunt,_ and yet you got to redeem yourself. I never got that chance, Tony, never. And for some reason, I tried to impress you. I wanted you to _like_ me. Do you know what that’s like? To hold someone so _high_ in esteem, yet they treat you like _shit_ on the bottom of their shoe? _Do you?_ ”

“Yes,” Tony says quietly, and of course he does. His father, his mother, Steve, everyone on his team, there’s a list of people who he wants so badly to respect him but he just doesn’t know how to make it work.

Hammer moves off and Steve sits by his head.

“You probably shouldn’t have begged,” he admits and Tony shuts his eyes.

“I know,” he says.

Steve shrugs “I mean, I wouldn’t have.”

“I know,” he says, then pauses. “Are you coming soon?”

“Yeah, maybe. There’s some stuff we gotta sort out first, but we are coming.”

Tony nods despondently “Okay, no, I know.”

 

* * *

They leave him out there that night and Tony revels at the chance to sleep lying down even if he’s not sure that he’ll wake up in the morning.

He dreams he’s in Afghanistan, and he’s walking through that desert, and he’s walking and walking and he doesn’t know if anybody is ever going to find him.

And then he’s walking through another desert, and he’s walking and walking and he doesn’t know if anybody is ever going to find him although he begins to worry that Raza’s men will find him here, too, even though it’s a different desert. It could be Afghanistan, Tony wouldn’t know.

He’s woken by Hammer persistently poking his head with his toe. He hasn’t moved since he fell yesterday, he still lies next to what was once a glass of water.

“You cry in your sleep.” Hammer says helpfully.

Tony doesn’t care.

“Here,” he says and he puts a bowl of water down by his head. It’s large, and it’s filled to the brim and Hammer has even put some ice in there for him and he lifts up his head, briefly looks Hammer in the eyes and waits for the trick, waits for him to kick it out from underneath him or tell him it’s laced with cyanide or make him beg but Hammer just walks away, back into the shack.

Tony waits till the coast is clear. He waits one minute, two. And then he presses his lips to the freezing liquid, drinks his fill, laps all of it up and swallows and swallows and swallows as if he’s never tasted anything better. He drinks until he’s fit to burst, until he’s sure he can’t take anymore and then he rest his head in the bowl, in the cold liquid, so it cools his brow.

Morgan comes out next with a hose and he washes him down, just sprays him with the cold water and he hasn’t felt this good in days, it takes the edge of the heat off, and he can _think,_ he’s no longer thirsty and he’s no longer melting, although it won’t be long before both come back with a vengeance.

That day, they feed him and let him rest. That night, they put the noose back around his neck and force him to stand until the early hours of the next day, ignoring his moans, his screams and, yes, his pleas to be let down.

 

* * *

The next day Tony cannot move.

He cannot walk.

He is beyond the point of stumbling anywhere, his feet will not take his weight, end of discussion. They’re cracked, swollen, bleeding, burnt, broken things and any attempt to force him to walk ends with him falling to his knees.

So they make him crawl instead.

And he moves, following behind the truck, a chain on his neck connected to the bumper. His hands and knees blister, he scrapes his skin against the floor the extent at which they bleed, and he starts to worry about infection.

His knees begin to swell.

He loses himself to his imagination. He imagines, multiple times, that quinjet flies overhead and stops in front of the truck and Clint climbs out and shoots Hammer through the skull and Steve holds him close and Natasha does something, he doesn’t know, anything, maybe she takes down Morgan or something and Bruce smashes the truck and the shack.

And then sometimes, he dreams the quinjet flies overhead but doesn’t stop and he cries out “Wait! Please!” and tries to crawl faster, panting, tries to scramble to his feet until Hammer stop the truck and he realises it was never real at all.

Steve comes back. He’s not going to crawl next to him so he sits on the back of the truck, looking down at him as he trails behind, chained, like an old dog being forced out on a walk.

He tells him that they are going to come for him, he just needs to patient. He has to stop rushing them, they have other things to do as well, and Tony apologises, he knows that, he was just wondering.

After that, they don’t make him walk out in the desert again.

 

* * *

Instead, they leave him chained to the truck by his neck, too lazy to move him, out in the heat, all day, all night. They give him water but he hasn’t seen food in what he thinks has been three or four days and he’s getting desperate.

He tries begging the next time he sees them.

“Please,” he crawls to Hammer’s feet “just something small, an apple, or something, please.”

“I don’t know, Tony,” Hammer examines his nails “I think you can last a bit longer.”

Tony goes back to his spot, curled under the truck.

Steve sits down in the dirt beside him.

“You hungry?”

Tony nods.

“Here,” he says, and he hands him a burger.

“Thank you,” he gasps “oh, thank you,” and he eats it all, eats every little bit, chomps down and feels it slide down his throat, feels the juices on his burnt fingers.

Until he hears hysterical laughter, and when he looks up he realises that he had never had a burger, he’d never had anything in his hands at all, he’d just been chewing air, and talking to himself, so lost in his little fantasy that he didn’t notice Hammer watching.

He lets his head hang and collapses onto the floor under the truck.

“Hey,” Steve says, ducking his head under the car “don’t take him seriously, Tony. He’s an ass.”

“I know,” Tony nods “I know, I’m just so hungry.”

 

* * *

“Say Stark, you gonna come out of there?”

During the past week, Tony had made the space underneath the truck his temporary home. He shaded him from the worst of the sun and the ground was cool enough that he didn’t burn at the touch of it. It was also more difficult to be reached.

He thinks he might of been out here for a few weeks. The details are sketchy. Increasingly, Tony forgets where he is altogether. Sometimes, when Hammer comes out to taunt him he can’t remember who he is, forgets that he’s most likely still in America, and covers his chest, because he can’t let Raza’s men touch the arc reactor, he can’t.

Apart from that, nobody else has come.

Tony’s starting to worry they’ve forgotten him.

He shuffles forward, and it’s difficult because his knees are swollen, his hands are swollen, his feet are swollen, they’re barely feeding him and he feels sub-human but he does it anyway, ducks his head down and squints to shield it from the sun.

Hammer unclips his chain from the truck “How are we gonna do this, hmm?” he sighs “Can you walk or should I get Morgan to drag you?”

Tony doesn’t care.

He slides out of consciousness and when he awakes he’s in the main shack, the first one, with the bloodied carpet. He’s sitting on the couch, a _real_ couch and he lets his head fall back against the cushions.

“He needs water,” someone murmurs and then it’s being trickled into his mouth.

“Give him this,” and something is propped behind his head. _Pillow_ his mind supplies.

He cracks open his eyes and sees the red light of a recorder blinking in front of him.

Ah. So the game’s changed, then.

(they were never coming for him in the first place)

“…$50,000,000 in order to have Tony Stark returned to you.”

Tony lets his eyes fall shut.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is running away from me. I have to apologise, I realise that there's no way I can fit two people falling in love into one 6,000 word chapter.

Two weeks.

Two weeks had gone by since Tony had been taken at gunpoint from his annual shareholders meeting.

Two weeks, and now, the first ransom tape appeared.

Steve had spent two weeks imagining what they were doing to Tony. Who had taken him. Why. 

He had spent two weeks fearing he might be dead.

All search avenues had come up empty, all leads turned dry. The men who had taken Tony were not the same ones who had him now, that much they knew. The vehicles may have been swapped multiple times along the journey, and although the knew Tony was roughly near the border they couldn’t be sure on what side. They toyed with the idea that he might have been taken down into South America.

And if that was the case, then their chances of finding him had just shrunk dramatically.

Steve didn’t like the idea of Tony being weak. It scared him. The idea that Tony could be hurt, that he could feel pain. It was like seeing a parent cry, he thought, like seeing someone who you revere, respect, love, even, taken down like that. It makes you feel unsafe, on edge, unsure of what to do.

He wanted to kill anyone who made Tony feel sad. Who hurt him. He wanted them to pay.

The tape had been sent to them, as well as to Pepper. They all sat in the break room in the tower to watch it played.

Pepper was calm. She was an old hand at this.

Steve? Not so much.

And it was terrifying. It really was, waiting those few minutes as Clint brought the video up, watching the first blurred thumbnail of Tony’s dark figure splayed out in front of them. He didn’t know what to expect. He almost changed his mind and left, he wanted to delay this, didn’t want to see what they’d done to him.

He was imagining awful things, broken noses, decapitated limbs, brain damage, burns, electrocution, anything, everything. There were a lot of ways to hurt a person.

And then it started.

Todays paper was shoved in front of the screen, proof of life. And then it was removed, and Steve saw Tony.

He saw Tony.

He wished he hadn’t.

There was an intake of breath from someone nearby but he ignored them.

Focused on his friend. The man on the screen.

He was burnt, in places. From the sun, yes, and also real, scalding burns, on his torso, his arms. His face is a dark brown, so tanned he can barely recognise him. And it’s all over, the burns and tan litter his entire body and Steve knows that they haven’t let him wear any clothes.

He’s lost weight. Lot’s of weight, because he’s skipped right past the slim stage and is right onto rib-showing, joint-blowing skinny. His muscles bulk him out slightly, but it’s obvious he hasn’t eaten well in weeks.

Dry, chapped lips. So no water then, either. Dehydration.

The skin around his neck is red and raw. There’s a thin chain there, small but strong, and it hangs loose on his neck. They’d been keeping him chained, then. Tied him up like a dog.

He’s going to kill them.

There are people talking from behind the camera, the ramble for a while, make threats, and then demand $50,000,000 dollars in cash to be delivered to an address of their choosing in five days or less. If not, they’ll kill him. 

Tony’s eyes crack open, but he’s barely cognisant. His eyes roam the room, hook onto the camera, but it’s obvious he’s not all-there.

His eyes close again.

The voices on screen tell them that for everyday they don’t pay, they will not feed Tony. That they will _hurt_ Tony. And as if in proof the camera swings up and then a man whose face has been blurred is carrying Tony out, out into blinding sunlight.

“I don’t want to watch this,” Pepper says “I don’t want to see this.”

Steve nods, and almost looks away.

The man lets him fall to the ground and he cries out weakly, legs tangled in the chain that the man holds in his hands.

Steve sees, now, where his knees are purple and bruised. They’ve swollen and it looks excruciating, he doesn’t know how Tony manages it but then he see his _feet_ and it becomes a struggle not to throw up, because Steve has seen some awful, bloody things in his time, but the sight of Tony’s swollen, scarred, burnt and bleeding feet is one of them. Pus glistens where blisters have burst, every movement seems to aggravate the bleeding, and he doesn’t know what these men have done, have they _burned_ his feet, and why, why be so needlessly cruel, they would _pay,_ the Avengers, Pepper, they would just _pay,_ they don’t need to hurt him anymore. 

The man behind the camera giggles, a high, _irritating,_ sound, it grates on the nerves, because it’s such a childish noise and so _wrong,_ how dare he laugh at Tony, how _dare he—_

The man on screen reaches for his own pants, unzips them and for a moment Steve blanches because no, they can’t, they won’t touch Tony like that he won’t let them.

He pisses on him.

Tony takes it. He doesn’t do anything to shield himself, just lies there in the blistering heat, in the scorching desert, and takes it, and he probably can’t do anything to stop it, he’s too tired, too weak.

Tony makes a small noise on the screen and shuts his mouth against it.

Then it’s over and he rolls, faces away from the camera. He curls up as best he can.

Bruce cuts the video before Steve sees anymore.

 

* * *

$50,000,000 packed in a carry-on bag sits by Steve’s feet on the cracked, hot earth.

It is hot. Out here, it is excruciatingly hot.

Natasha stands by his side. An Audi behind them.

They want this to be quick; they get the money, the kill the targets. They get Tony back.

They’re waiting at the area Steve recognises from it’s brief appearance on the hostage tape. Two shacks, one larger than the other, and a truck in front of both, lie some way off from where they stand. They wait for the men to appear.

And then Steve sees the door open.

Two men carrying a smaller one between them, dragging him over hot dirt, and it’s Tony, that’s his Tony they’re holding, and his hand goes to the gun by his side on instinct, only for Natasha to stay him with a hand on his arm.

“Not yet,” she murmurs “wait.”

They get closer, and this will be the culmination of nearly three weeks of searching. Three weeks, and soon he’ll be able to hold Tony close.

But not before he blows these men’s brains from their skulls.

They stop some thirty feet away and let Tony fall to the ground. He looks awful, he looks like he’s dead, or nearly there, and his knees are bleeding, his feet are bleeding, his hands, Christ, they’ve ripped the nails from his hands, from his feet.

Steve goes for his gun just as — Hammer, that’s Justin Hammer, that little fuck was supposed to be _dead_ — goes for his, and they both draw quickly, Steve aiming his at Justin, Justin aiming his at Tony.

“I have nothing left to lose, Captain,” he says, and there’s a feral glint, and unstable look, in his eyes “I have no reason not to shoot.”

The other man watches impassively.

“No reason to be hasty, boys,” Natasha intones from his side “this is an exchange. We give you cash upfront, you give us Tony, and then you can be on your way. Drive straight over the border and hide in Brazil for the rest of your lives for all we give a damn.”

Hammer snorts, shakes his gun “I remember you. You’re the fucking ice queen.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” she says “quite.”

“Let me see the money,” the other man starts “open it up.”

Steve bends down, unzips the carrier bag, and inside are thousands of $100 dollar bills.

The man grins “You pass us the bag, we pass you Stark.”

“Put your guns down, then.” Steve orders. Hammer objects but the man tilts his head, lays his gun carefully on the ground and then Steve and Natasha do the same.

Steve picks up the money. “Catch,” he says, and lugs it so it lands a few feet away from where they stand.

Hammer narrows his eyes, the nods “Move, Stark.”

Tony’s head rises slightly, only to slump.

“Tony,” Steve says “come on, Shellhead. Time to go home.”

Tony frowns where his head lies on the ground. He mumbles something incoherent, paws at the ground.

“What’s he saying?” Natasha shouts across to the men.

“Says your not real.”

Steve shares a look with Natasha. “I’m coming to get him—”

“Stay back!” Hammer shouts “You take a single fucking step and I blow his brains out, I swear to God.”

“He can’t walk, Hammer,” Natasha tries to reason “we need to take him.”

Steve drops to his knees “Tony,” he says “Tony, can you hear me?”

Tony looks up again, and his face is a deep brown, his eyes blank, hair dry, windswept and crusted with sand.

“Tony you need to come here, come on, we’re getting you out of here,” he tries, gently.

Tony whines, forces his lips open, says something in a whisper then coughs.

“Tony?” Steve says again “What is it?”

Tony clears his throat, swallows.

“Will there be burgers?” He says, hoarse, “Will there be fries?”

Steve frowns, but he understands, Tony is just confused, he’s confused and hungry and it’s heartbreaking so Steve nods “Yeah, sure, whatever you like, Tony. You just need to come closer.”

Tony brings a hand up to lie by his face. Then he drags another. Presses them into the ground, tries to push himself up.

He can’t do it. The most simple of tasks, and he can’t do it, because he’s physically too weak. He can’t even crawl.

Steve stands up “Back off, I’m coming to get him.”

“Take one step and I’ll shoot him in the head.”

“Steve,” Natasha murmurs “stop.”

Steve takes a step back. Pauses. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Okay,” he says, defeated “go. Take the money, leave. Just leave Tony, we’ll pick him up once you’ve left.”

Hammer looks at the man by his side. The man nods. Slowly, carefully, the begin to back away, gun still trained on Tony’s head. They reach their truck, pile in and Steve sees it vibrate into life. They move, fast, some way out into the desert and then, just as Steve moves to pick up Tony, explode. The truck bursts into flames, Steve sees limbs go flying and when he turns he sees Natasha holding a remote.

“You get Tony,” she says “I’ll start the car.”

Steve runs “Hey, Tony, hey, it’s me.”

“Steve…” he manages “Steve?”

“Yeah, it’s me, it’s me, you’re gonna be all right.” Steve feels himself choking up, feels his eyes sting, and he tells himself it’s the sand.

“Is this real?” He says, very quietly, rasping.

“Yeah, yeah Tony this is real.”

Tony frowns, closes his eyes and Steve is struck by a very visceral fear “Hey, hey, no Tony, you can’t shut your eyes, we’re gonna drive you to the quinjet, okay, and then we’ll take you to the tower, Bruce has it all set up for you, it’ll be great.”

Tony murmurs something, cracks his eyes open and Steve lifts him into his arms, runs with him to the car.

“Go,” he says “go, quickly.”

 

* * *

Tony lies in his bed. Steve, and the rest of the team, had gone to great pains to ensure that it would be _his_ bed he woke up in, not one in the hospital, somewhere that he didn’t recognise, somewhere that he could be… scared.

Malnourished and dehydrated were the most life threatening of his many maladies but also the easiest to fix. For the past three days Tony had been hooked up to drips as they fed him moisture and vitamins and glucose and whatever else he needed to survive.

His knees were more difficult to solve.

His feet.

There’s no point thinking about that until he wakes up, Steve can’t do anything about it. He can, however, be there when Tony opens his eyes. He will be the person to reassure him that he is okay. That he is safe.

That Hammer, in a tragic turn of events, has died in mysterious circumstances.

Watching him now as he slowly struggles back to consciousness, Steve feels a remarkable tenderness blooming inside of his chest, a warm glow in his gut. It surprises him, that he can feel like this about Tony, but it does not bother him.

When Tony’s eyes crack open he smiles softly, places a hand on the bed “Hey,” he whispers “how you feeling?”

Tony blinks, licks his lips and coughs.

“Is this real?” He asks says, voice a croak, barely hearable “Are you real?”

“Yeah, Tony,” Steve says, subdued “of course I’m real.”

Tony blinks and Steve sets his head gently on the pillow. “You’re safe, now. You can sleep.”

Tony doesn’t appear to have heard and he lets his head rest on his pillow. His eyes slowly drift closed.

 

* * *

Tony feels himself swim towards consciousness. It’s tugging him up, but he would rather stay down. It is warm. He is safe.

He dreams that Steve sits in a chair by his side.

 

* * *

Tony wakes up intermittently, each time dazed, each time confused, but each time finding his voice, getting his bearings. Usually, his eyes will slide open only for him to have already forgotten his last awakening, and so the pattern of Steve vowing that, yes, he is in fact real, goes on for a few more days.

The first time Tony is awake for more than ten minutes comes just a little short of a week. He is still confused, still bone-tired, but he manages to keep his eyes open long enough to ensure that he is free and that Hammer is dead.

“Where,” he manages to get out “what h’ppened?”

Bruce crosses his hands on his knees, leans forward “They picked you up at the arranged meeting spot.”

“S’Hammer?”

“He died, Tony. He died.”

Tony blinks, digests the news. “Steve,” he rasps “Steve wass’ there, I r’member.”

Bruce nods “He and Natasha both were there. They brought you back to the quinjet and then Clint brought you home.”

Tony nods, briefly satisfied. Then:

“Where’s Steve?”

Bruce smoothes the sheets around his legs “He’s just sleeping Tony. He’ll come and visit you when he wakes up, he’s been sitting here for days. He was there every other time you woke up.”

Tony’s head falls slack against the pillow. He can’t hold it up yet, he can’t move at all yet. Bruce still hasn’t been able to move him onto solid foods, he doubts Tony will even remember this talk.

He goes to sleep again.

 

* * *

Tony coughs himself awake.

He can’t, where is he? Where is he now? Did they sell him? Did Stark industries pay for him? He doesn’t know, he can’t think, everything is jumbled in his head. 

He tries lifting a hand but can’t, he’s disconnected, discombobulated, things swim in and out of his attention. Where is he, he doesn’t remember what happened, but he is lying on something soft and that’s not right, it should be ground, rock hard ground that burns at the touch, and he should be chained, hiding under the truck, so what, where.

He cracks open his eyes but is assaulted by light; too bright, the sun, it’s blinding and he had the strangest dream, he had such strange dreams, not nightmares but something else, something worse, because they left him with an aching in his chest, a nostalgia, and the feeling of wanting something more, of something that he cannot have.

He aches, yet feels detached from his body. Like he can’t feel his extremities, like he’s been cut loose. He tries again to lift his hand, to raise his head, but can’t. It’s like trying to pick up a concrete block, the effort with which it takes him is impossible to bear.

He opens his eyes again, and this time they adjust to the light. He blinks rapidly, takes in the soft creams, the dappled light of the setting sun and registers the faint beep of a hospital. Except he knows this room. This is his room.

He manages to turn his head on his pillow, mouth slack and eyes dazed, and catches a glimpse of the IV running up his arm. He feels the cannula in his nose, feels cold air against the back of this throat, and although he knows he shouldn’t he feels the need to dislodge it, to remove it because it’s uncomfortable.

He can’t move his hand, though. He’s too weak. He stays still, coughs and drags in another shaky breath, ready to shout.

“Hello?” He tries, but is shocked to hear only a whisper emanate from his mouth. “Hello?” He says again, only for his voice to break and fall flat, tailing into another cough.

He is thirsty.

Everything feels very light, but at the same time, he feels the weight of his limbs. _Morphine_ is the obvious answer but that doesn’t matter, he needs to get a drink. He tries shifting his hips and finds that they, at least, can still move. He swings, tries to roll over, to get some kind of leverage so he can get some water, at least.

But he can’t. He can’t move at all. And it’s pathetic, and he’s thirsty, and all he wants is a drink. He doesn’t think they would _stop_ him from drinking, but they might. And although there’s a small part of him that tells him it’s just the morphine talking, Tony is suddenly scared because he doesn’t want to think that they might not give him water, that they might hold that from him.

“Please,” he utters hoarsely “hello?”

He coughs, rubs the flat of his cheek against the pillow in an attempt to dislodge the thing in his nose “Steve?” he croaks.

He tries again to move his arms and this time manages to lift one a few inches off the bed, only for it to fall again like a dead thing. He notices the neat little bandages that cover each finger.

_“Scream.”_

_Tony shakes his head, squeezes his lips down tight, bites his tongue “Mmpff’” he cries out from behind a closed jaw “Mmmmph!”_

_A slap to his cheek; his mouth falls open as he sucks in air._

_“Scream.” The order is given again and then there’s another pull, a sharp tug and Tony screams as he feels the give of his nail under the wrench of metal pliers._

They had pulled out the ones on his toes, as well, Tony remembers.

He feels pain at the memory but also a sense of artificial calm. It’s the drugs, he knows, he’s got lots of good stuff running through his veins.

He lets his head fall back against the pillow. He can wait, then. He is safe. No one will hurt him here. He’s still thirsty but he’s used to it.

He lets his thoughts slide, he’s starting to drift again when someone comes in.

“Tony?” A soft voice says “Tony? Are you awake?”

Tony coughs as he tries to answer, shaken from his reverie. Instead of a name he says “I’m thirsty.”

Steve nods, slides the door shut behind him. “I’ll bet you are,” and he reaches for a jug and glass on the top of the chest of drawers. He pours, brings it to Tony and places it on the table beside his bed. Gently, so gently, he slides a hand behind Tony’s head, props him up and lets the cup rest on his lips.

Tony drinks. The water feels so good. It feels good right up until he chokes, spluttering, and coughing the rest of the liquid up.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Steve soothes as Tony gives a small whine “here,” he says and drags a tissue across Tony’s chin, wiping away the excess fluid “do you want more?”

Tony manages to shake his head even through the burn of humiliation spattering his cheekbones. He turns his head into the pillow, breathes heavily and tries not to cough.

“You probably don’t remember but this is about the seventh time you’ve woken up.”

Tony frowns gently. He doesn’t.

Steve pauses, then. Sits awkwardly, shoulders too wide and hands unsure of where to put themselves. Why is he here, Tony wonders, why is he here. He wants to ask, to articulate his thoughts, but he’s not that far gone with the pain meds.

“You’re probably hungry,” Steve says, eyes cast downwards “I should, yeah, I should get Bruce—”

And although it’s awkward and uncomfortable and there is something hanging between the two of them that has been left unsaid, Tony does not want him to leave.

“No,” he rasps “no, stay.” He blinks, frowns into the pillow, loose with the morphine. Steve can’t leave. He can’t. Not after what has happened.

“I thought it was you,” Tony slurs “sometimes. Sometimes, when I wass’ hungry, or thirsty, or tired I thought I could see you.”

Steve looks sad, but forces a smile anyway “And was I good company?”

Tony blinks and frowns. He does not understand the question.

“Why can’t I move?” He croaks “Am I tied? Have you tied me?” He tries again to shift his arms but he can barely feel them, let alone lift them.

Steve looks uneasy, then. “You’re sick, Tony. Dehydrated. Starved. And you’re hurt, too, your hands, knees, feet. It might be a while before… before you’re up and about.”

Tony pouts and his face begins to crumple. “I don’t wanna stay here.”

Steve winces “Tony, don’t, okay, I’ll find somewhere else for you to go—”

Tony shakes his head as best he can, knocks it from side to side on the pillow “No,” he cries “I don’t wanna be here I wanna be good so I can hide if someone comes for me.”

Steve pauses, processes. “Tony,” he says carefully “Tony, I promise no one will come for you here.”

Tony sobs “They might. They might. And I can’t do it again.” And even though no tears fall his face catches in a way that tells Steve he’s on the brink of losing it.

“You’re — this is morphine, Tony, it’s the morphine. It’s not helping you think, I know, wait, let me get Bruce.”

“No,” he rasps as loudly as he can “no, don’t go! Don’t go!” If Steve leaves then he’ll be alone and Tony realises that that is not an option. He can’t be alone, he can’t, anyone could come in, anyone could hurt him, and Steve, Steve was there, in the desert and the heat, he was there through the pain and crawling and he can’t go now.

But time is moving slowly, it trickles round his mind, and by the time he manages to plead with Steve to stay he’s already gone and Tony is screaming to an empty room.

Except then there are hands on his cheeks, stroking his face and he doesn’t know how because Steve had just left and now Bruce is right there, saying things even though Tony can’t hear him because someone is screaming, someone is screaming and it’s not stopping and even when Tony realises, distantly, that it’s him, he doesn’t know how to end it because Steve left, he left and Tony was alone so anyone could get to him really, anyone, and suddenly he’s not in his bed anymore, he can feel heat on his skin, sand in his eyes, grit in his teeth and burning while Hammer ties him to the front of the car and drives round and round and round, faster and faster, until Tony’s retching the precious food that they gave him and his head can’t stop spinning.

And then they let him down but they make him walk even though he can’t and everything is still going round and round and round and he falls flat on his face and it hurts because they’d just ripped out his fingernails so when he scrabbles at the hot sand he screams in agony and they just laugh and laugh and —

Tony comes back to himself with a gasp.

It is dark outside but Tony will not open his eyes.

He stays with his face screwed tight and body as tense as it can be, terrified to open them, terrified that there is something waiting for him behind his eyelids that he cannot see.

He gathers his courage. “Steve?” He whimpers.

“I’m here, Tony.” A voice says softly “You’re all right.”

Tony lets his eyes slide open, takes in the dim lights and the city outside his window.

“I…” He starts, only for his words to fall flat as he swallows.

Steve gives a small, sad smile “Here,” he says “I have some soup.”

“Soup,” Tony repeats slowly, confused, dazed “what happened?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Steve blows on the bowl, stirs it with a spoon and sets it down on the side table.

“You were a bit spooked,” he says. Spooked. Like a horse. “But it’s okay,” he continues “you’re okay now.”

Tony tries to think, tries to place exactly what happened, but it’s all a bit fuzzy in his head.

“Don’t leave.” He manages and Steve brings his hand to rest carefully on Tony’s bandaged one.

“I would never.” He swears.

Tony wonders if Steve was always like this. He can’t remember exactly so he lets it slide.

“Soup?” he rasps and Steve props his head up on the pillows, tilts his head up. And then he feeds him, like you would feed a child.

Tony moans, the liquid spills out of his mouth. He turns his head, squeezes his eyes tight and locks his lips, face screwed with pain.

“Tony?” Steve starts “Tony?” And his voice is thready with panic “Are you okay? Is it, is it your feet? Your knees? Tell me!”

Tony shakes his head, eyes tearing with obvious agony.

“Wadder’,” he gasps “wadder’”

“Water?” Steve repeats “You want water?”

Tony nods desperately on the pillows and opens his mouth, pants as if trying to get cold air into his mouth.

Steve sees then where the skin, the flesh, has been rubbed raw. Large blisters, raised of the pad of the tongue, and red wounds mark the skin. Burns. His tongue is _burnt._

“Here,” Steve says “here, God, I’m sorry we didn’t know, why didn’t you _say,_ here, drink.” He pours the water into his mouth and Tony lets it sit on his tongue.

“Swallow,” Steve says, fishing ice out of the jug on the table “take these.” And he presses a cube onto the pad of Tony’s tongue watches as he winces but the visibly deflates with relief.

He sucks, lets the ice numb his tongue. He should have said something. He should of. But then Steve would have asked questions. He would want to know why his tongue was burnt. What had he done to get it.

When he finishes the cube, Steve feeds him another and sets one into the soup, tries to cool it. Tony just waits, he’s in no rush, he’ll eat eventually, there is food there for him and it’s not like Steve’s going to withhold it or something.

They sit in silence. Steve doesn’t know what to say.

Eventually, he bring the cold spoon to Tony’s lips and although Tony thinks he should be embarrassed the morphine has dulled that as well and he lets Steve feed him the whole bowl, lets him scrape it off his chin and smooth back his hair.

Tony feels his eyes grow heavy, and he turns his mouth away the next time Steve lifts the spoon to his lips and whines, pressing his head into the pillow.

“Enough?” Steve says “Okay, that’s okay, you just sleep.”

The air is heady around him. Everything moves slowly, hangs dense on his limbs. It’s suffocating, claustrophobic, too warm, but Tony doesn’t want the feeling to leave. He wants to stay here, in this timeless place, where he is safe and Steve is with him.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles again, tongue raw and burning but bearable “don’t leave.”

Steve nods, smiles, and runs his fingers through Tony’s hair again “Don’t you worry, Shellhead. I’m right here.”

Tony leans into the touch, lets it soothe him. He yawns and coughs, gives a small snuffle. He wants to roll over, curl up under the blankets, feels the weight of his limbs around him and, in fairness, he is tired and out of his mind on drugs when he murmurs:

“Hold me?”

Steve looks into his wide, open brown eyes for a beat. And then he shucking off his shoes, crawling under the covers. He slides himself underneath Tony’s lax, weak body, feels the ridges of his spine press against his belly, the weight of his head against his chest and the way he relaxes completely into his hold.

“I won’t let the get you,” Steve whispers “it’s okay. You can sleep.”

Tony blinks rapidly, his last holds on reality slipping.

“Okay.” He says.

 

* * *

_“Beg me.”_

_“Please,” Tony croaks out “please, let me eat.”_

_Hammer holds energy bar just out of reach. “Convince me, Tony.”_

_He shakes his head “I don’t know,” he stumbles “I don’t know what you want me to do.”_

_Hammer shrugs “What do_ think _I would like you to do?”_

_Tony frowns, swallows, even though nothing goes down._

_“Please,” he tries again. He shuffles forward, knees grating against the beaten, burning earth, his neck chafing where the chain strains taut as he tugs himself forward “I’ll do anything.” He says weakly and hangs his head._

_A hand on his chin; Hammer presses up, tilting him towards the sun._

_“There are… so many things,” he hisses, grin growing on his face like a disease “that I would love to do to you, Tony, sweetie.” He sighs “So many, so little time. Maybe we should have held out on offering that ransom, it would have given me more time to play.”_

_Tony remains stoic, squinting into the sun, ignoring his words._

_“I thought your friends would have found you by now,” he sing-songs “obviously I was wrong.”_

_Tony lets his eyes close._

_“They were never coming in the first place, were they?”_

_Tony wants to shake his head, or protest, but what’s the point?_

_“At the end of the day, Tones,” Hammer presses his face down into the dirt, forces his head to rest on his boot “you’re just as pathetic as me. Just as alone. Just as hated.”_

_Tony wonders if he can sleep now and let Hammer rant without him noticing._

_“Say it, Tony.”_

_He frowns “Say what?” He slurs._

_“Say you have no friends, sweetie.”_

_Tony doesn’t think:_

_“I have no friends.”_

_“Say you’re pathetic.”_

_“I am pathetic.”_

_“Worthless.”_

_“I am worthless.”_

_“Is anybody coming for you?”_

_“Nobody is coming for me.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I have no friends. Because I am pathetic. Because I am worthless.”_

_Hammer chuckles “That’s sweet. That’s good.”_

_A pause:_

_“Say it again. Say it, go on, I want to hear you say it over and over.”_

_“I have no friends. I am pathetic. I am worthless.”_

_Hammer snarls, kicks his head up with his boot “I said say it_ over and over, _fuckwit.”_

_Tony’s head balances precariously on his shoulders. He doesn’t think he can do this anymore. He thinks he might actually be dying._

“I have no friends. I am pathetic. I am worthless.”

_Over and over. Eventually the words lose meaning. It doesn’t hurt much, it’s easy, because it’s true and because at least this way Hammer isn’t touching him._

_Justin watches Tony with disturbing intensity as he says those words over and over again. He doesn’t let him stop, even as Tony’s strength gives out and he falls to the ground, mumbling words into the dirt._

_“No,” Hammer says, frustrated “it’s not enough.” He kicks the ground next to Tony’s head, slams a hand into the truck “It’s not_ good _enough, you should— I could make you do_ anything _and I’m wasting it.”_

_He’s sulking. Tony understands, he can be empathetic. Hammer has Tony just where he wants him, he has him lodged firmly under his thumb, and yet he even now he’s scared, scared of being shown up by him, scared of Tony winning, of making Justin look the fool. He’s frustrated because, as much as Tony detests the man, he doesn’t believe he is a sadist. He believes he is ill, and sad, and desperate for revenge._

_It makes it a lot easier for him to grin._

_“Can I eat?” He murmurs._

_Hammer scowls “No. No, you can’t, you fucking can’t, not until I say so.”_

_Tony lies in the dirt._

_Hammer crouches down, tugs his hair up and smirks “You look like a fucking piece, Tony. I wish you could see yourself, you’re like one of those starving kids on the feed the world ads. I bet you would do_ anything _to eat my shit.”_

_Tony doesn’t react, just lets Hammer talk over his head._

_He lets his head fall to ground, lets go of his hair; Tony hasn’t the strength to hold it up himself._

_“Lick the ground.”_

_Tony shudders._

_“Do it. You’re hungry? Do it. If you lick the dirt for one minute then I’ll give you this bar.”_

_It’s no choice at all, really._

_Tony’s tongue burns. It feels like fire and gravel scratches at the surface of his tongue. He can’t actually lift up his head so it stays on its side, ear pressed to the ground, as he laps at the sand and earth and dirt._

_“What the fuck is that?” He demands “What the fuck, Tony, I said lick not fucking touch with the tip of your tongue.” He grabs Tony’s head, presses his nose into the ground._

_“Lick.”_

_Tony starts up again and he can feel where skin is ripped clean, where his tongue is abraded, raw and burning, and how it goes on for longer that a minute and how Hammer arranges his limbs so his hands are pressed by his head, his knees folded under him, and how he drags up his hips, pulls up his ass, and forces him to take all of his weight on his swollen hands and knees._

_It’s excruciating and Hammer won’t let him stop, he can’t do this anymore, he’s really scared that he’s destroyed his tongue, that he won’t ever be able to talk, or eat, but Hammer tells him to stop eventually and Tony cries because the_ pain, _oh God,_ the pain, _it doesn’t fade, it’s impossible, it makes him want to tear at his hair and he sobs rasping things and breathes hot air and tries to cool the flesh._

_Hammer tuts “Here.” He says and Tony rips open the energy bar eagerly only for the pain of it to make him sob harder and he’s curled on the ground and sobbing and nibbling at a bar like it’s the most precious thing in the world, wrapped around it just in case Hammer changes his mind, and his tongue is so swollen that it takes up his entire mouth and he feels so low, so pathetic, and the pain won’t stop and he wonders what he would have to do to be rescued and —_

 

* * *

Tony moans awake.

He’s still panting, he thinks he might of been crying, and he tries to move, or free himself from the things around him but he _can’t._

Then he hears Steve’s voice.

“Hey,” it says “hey, hey, there now, just me.”

Tony wants to get free but he doesn’t know how to say it. He can’t believe Steve’s _here,_ he can’t believe he’s _real._ Where is everyone else? Why is it just him? Is this reality? How can he be sure?

A hand smoothes through his hair and Tony gasps. He’s in pain. He feels it now, not just from his abraded tongue but also on his destroyed finger tips and toes, his swollen knees and burnt feet. He presses his head against Steve’s chest, presses back with whatever strength he has and then he’s throwing up.

“Aww, Tony,” Steve says softly “shh, it’s okay, no, don’t worry, it’s normal, it was your first meal in…” Steve doesn’t finish the thought but disentangles himself from Tony’s broken limbs.

“M’ sorry,” he gasps “sorry,” he blinks, squeezes his eyes tight as Steve wipes away the sick, moulds him limbs into a new shirt “I licked the floor.” He blurts “But you can’t tell anyone.”

Steve is silent beside him. Tony risks peeking open on eye to view his stony face.

“Sorry.” Tony stumbles again “Sorry. I know you wouldn’t have,” he mumbles, and he’s regretting this, he doesn’t know why he said it, spur of the moment and potentially life ruining.

Steve frowns, lightly. “I’m not angry.” He says, although he sure looks it.

“He told me,” Tony mumbles, eyelids falling heaving “he said if I licked the floor for a minute he would give me food. But it was longer than a minute, I think.” His eyes close and he forces them open, barely daring to breathe, and asks “Could I… is there stuff? For… for the pain?”

Steve jolts, shakes out of his reverie “Yeah,” he says, suddenly awake, active “yeah, uh, God, where did Bruce—”

“Bruce,” Tony coughs “you mentioned Bruce.” And a wave of relief courses over him, Steve _had_ mentioned Bruce, so this was probably real, probably. 

Steve does something he can’t see out of the corner of his eye and then, slowly, the morphine floods through his veins. He sighs as an imaginary weight is taken off of his feet, as the swelling feels like it’s deflating, as he can no longer feel the fingertips and toes and his tongue.

Steve sits next to him again, and that can’t be comfortable, because it’s late, late at night, early morning, and Steve should be sleeping.

“Did…” Steve says, face clouded, unsure. Tony mentally berates himself, he shouldn’t have said anything. Steve isn’t quite present now and Tony doesn’t know what would happen if someone attacked. He doesn’t know if he can ask Steve to hold him again.

But then Steve smiles gently “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re safe now.” And Tony relaxes, lets the morphine do it’s job.

“You can’t tell anyone.” He whispers “You can’t let them know.” And his voice is heavy with sleep, with exhaustion, but that’s okay, he can sleep whenever he likes, now.

“I won’t.” Steve swears “On my life.”

Tony frowns, even as his eyes slide closed. “Don’t do that,” he mumbles “don’t do that.”

The words are fogged but Steve knows his meaning is clear. Never stake your life on mine.

It’s easier than telling Steve the truth: That he has no friends. That he is broken and pathetic. 

Worthless.

 


	3. Chapter 3

After about a week, Tony is able to sit up and feed himself. That is about the extent to which he has mobility.

He can’t walk. He won’t be walking for a while, even after he gets his strength up. After that, Bruce predicts that he may be in need of support for the foreseeable future, if not the rest of his life.

Everyday, he becomes more aware. Comes back to himself. He remembers that night were he made Steve crawl into his bed and tries to bite down the crush of shame that weighs down on his shoulders, makes him feel heavy.

Steve doesn’t tell the others how he got the burns on his tongue; he keeps his promise. Tony, too, is tight-lipped about it. He lets them assume what they will. He was tortured, after all.

The first time he sees them put the fresh bandages on his feet he nearly throws up. He’s been doing that a lot, because of re-feeding syndrome, but the sight, no matter how brief, of his scarred and bruised and burnt and blistered feet is enough to shock him. His toe nails are all gone, there is pus seeping from open wounds, it’s disgusting, and they’re engorged, swollen completely.

He tries to push forward but Steve holds him down, lowers his head gently to the mattress covers his eyes with one soft palm, lets him wince but won’t let him look. He doesn’t know what he’d do without him. Without Steve. Over the past two weeks he has become his rock, even though he’s not sure why or how. He thinks Steve might be feeling guilty and, okay, maybe it’s selfish of him to let it continue, so he promises himself that he’ll let him stay just until he’s better and then they can go back to being acquaintances or comrades or whatever the hell they were before.

He hisses when bandages are gently unwrapped by a reticent Bruce who tactfully doesn’t mention the fetidness of wasting flesh. He hears him huff a breath as he gently sponges the soles of his feet with warm water, dabs them with some sort of cream, reapplies the dressing. Tony can feel where dry, dead skin, thick and hard, is scraped off by some kind of pumice stone, where dead flesh flakes off when Bruce gently soaps it with warm water that feels too hot.

He keeps trying to draw he foot out of his grasp, can’t stop the pained moans, and Steve holds him down tight and Bruce keeps promising to make it as fast as he can because no morphine in the world could stop the pain of broken, bleeding skin being grated on rough stone, cleaned with water that burns, flesh being sloughed off as he works.

This repeats everyday. It is excruciating.

His knees take less work to maintain, although they are also damaged. Two weeks of being stuck on them and one day of intense crawling has left them scabbed and scarred, the skin punctured, the joints swollen. He can’t bend his legs anymore. They too are a mass of pain.

They give him painkillers and hope for the best. They keeps his knees iced until he can barely feel them, goes over them with the special cream. He’s on a cocktail of antibiotics to fight infection and so far it’s working.

They says it’s a miracle that he hasn’t had a fever, hasn’t fallen ill, and Tony doesn’t say it’s because Hammer doused the raw and bleeding wounds in pure ethanol.

In between times, he is content to lie in his drug-induced doze. Sometimes he has visitors, like Pepper, Rhodey, Happy. Clint comes by and leaves red grapes on the table knowing full well that he only eats green ones. Natasha comes, too. She sits in the chair by his bed, not saying anything, while he blinks slowly, lost in a drug-induced haze. When she leaves, she presses a kiss to his forehead.

Steve remains a constant. He sleeps in a bed that’s been moved next to his, although most nights he climbs into bed with Tony. It’s not sexual, it’s never like that. It’s just Tony seeking _warmth,_ seeking security. It’s him awaking to the feeling of being held.

During the night, when terrors shake him apart, it’s Steve who smoothes his sweaty brow. Gives him water. Places ice in his mouth and hums gently, sometimes rocks him, sometimes cards his hand through his hair, and soothes him back to sleep, safe in his arms.

One day, Tony awakes from a nap to find him reading, out loud, from a book he cannot place. He doesn’t really understand what he’s saying, or what the book is about, but he lets the words wash over him anyway.

It makes him feel loved, just a little. Even if the only motive is guilt.

Days pass, they turn into a week, two, and over time Tony is granted more freedom. The IV’s are removed, he takes his painkillers orally, he can sit in a chair by the window. He’s still out of it, confused from his dosage, but at least now he has some measure of control.

One day, he refuses to take his meds. Refuses. He doesn’t want to stay like this, fuzzy and muted, and there’s some irrational part of him that fears if he doesn’t stop taking them _now_ he’s going to be like that forever, that he is never going to get better.

Bruce frowns, shakes his head, but Tony keeps his lips pressed tight. Eventually, he leaves them on the table next to his water.

Three hours later and Tony sobs with the chronic pain. Now, he’s scared that without painkillers this pain will never fade, that he’ll be left with swollen joints and scarred flesh. That he’ll be left with a too-thin body and a slow, broken mind.

Steve is the one that picks him up, carries him to the bed, and palms the pills into his mouth. Holds the water for him to swallow and then massages his head till the pain starts to fade.

 

* * *

Some month later and Tony is feeling better.

Better, in that he is regaining strength. He can sit up on his own, move his arms, legs, he has control of his limbs. The swelling in his knees has gone down; his fingernails grow back. His tongue, although scarred, stops burning. He can’t taste food anymore, though. Or he can, but it’s not the same. There’s too much damage.

His feet continue to be a problem. Even as he gathers the strength to take his first steps it takes a long time for them to heal completely. On top of the nerve damage to his knees and feet, he can’t quite strut the way he used to. Bruce and Steve put their heads together and get him a subtle, discreet cane. It sits, unused, in the corner until Tony can drag himself out of bed.

He finds he really doesn’t want to.

What’s wrong with spending the rest of his life in bed? People do it all the time. He can work from here, kinda. And he can take visitors. The public will forget about him _eventually,_ it’s not like the Avengers really need him. And, you know, if Steve can stay with him then that would be nice. Tony doesn’t think he has much of a chance if he starts to get better and Steve stops feeling guilty.

“Tony.”

“Just, Christ, give me second, okay? The last time I moved anywhere was one month ago.”

Steve stands a few feet away from his bed, where Tony sits on the edge, feet skimming the floor. He looks at him with a face mixed with sadness, pity, and vague amusement.

“You’ve been sitting there for ten minutes and I’d like you to get going sometime _before_ I die.”

“It could be your final sight,” Tony says wryly “it would be very poetic.”

Steve rolls his eyes, crosses his arms “Yeah, a very fitting end, hurry up Tony.”

He swallows. “I… yeah. Just wait.”

Steve looks at him again, this time softer “Tony, you can’t avoid this.”

He frowns, snaps “I’m not.” But his voice catches at the end and he has to look down.

“Do you want your cane?” Steve says quietly.

“No!” Tony hisses. He can’t, it’s giving in, almost. It feels like a failure.

“There’s no shame in it, Tony, it’s not your fault.” Steve says, moving forward.

“Go to hell.” He mumbles, head bowed, bandaged fingers clutching tightly to the edge of the mattress.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Steve whispers, and he’s close, Tony can feel his breath on his face. It’s warm, sweet, minty. Tony tilts his head up.

They stare at each other.

And then Tony looks away.

“I don’t want to be,” he says, almost inaudibly “I just want…” his voice breaks and he has to swallow.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, and he brings a hand up to cup Tony’s cheek “hey, you don’t need to worry, Tony. You’ll get better, you _are_ better.”

“I feel weak.” He says, and he leans into the touch just slightly. Lets himself have that.

“You don’t…” Steve sighs “you don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with. I promise.”

Tony feels like he’s let him down.

“I,” he swallows again, hard, and shakes Steve’s hand from his cheek “you know they made me walk, right?”

Steve nods sadly “I know.”

“They made me walk all day for days and the ground… it burned my feet. And they wouldn’t feed me,” Tony looks lost. His eyes roam, glassy, as if searching for some kind of answer “And I don’t know why. I just, I lost a bit of myself, I think. I left a piece of myself out there and I… I don’t know how to get it back.”

He shrugs, lowers his head, huffs and then presses his lips together. Steve runs a hand through his hair.

“If I stand here,” he says “you can try walking. I promise I’ll catch you if you… trip.”

Tony snorts, although there’s not much enthusiasm to it. “My hero,” he murmurs and Steve smiles.

“That’s it, Tony,” he takes a hand in his “come on. We’ll try just this once, no one else even needs to know.”

Tony nods, shifts on the bed “Okay.” He says.

He sets his feet on the floor, winces.

“Ah — maybe, actually, we could do this another time—”

“Tony.”

He swallows. Slowly, he inches himself off of the bed, slowly, he rises until standing. Steve smiles.

“That okay?”

Tony frowns, grimaces. “Maybe…” he clears his throat “maybe the cane.”

Steve nods and doesn’t say anything, and Tony loves him for that. The cane is in his hand and he leans on it, uses it to support himself.

He picks up one foot and presses it down into the earth—

The ground. He picks up one foot and presses it down onto the ground. Then he shuffles the cane, picks up the other.

He smiles, grins, and moves one more time, another foot up, down, up down. Two more steps. Then he moves too fast; he falls to the hot, beaten sand, the burning feeling spreading to his knees as they give out from under him and he crashes, hard.

No. No.

He cries out, cane falling to the side as he scrabbles on the floor. He eyes are squeezed shut, tight, he doesn’t want to look, can’t, he shuffles back, beating away the hands that come for him. There is hot sun on his weather-beaten flesh, he can feel the drag of rocks and sand on his skin, and he doesn’t want to be here.

He moves back, fumbles wildly, and feels his head bang against something hard, metal.

_The truck._

He ducks his head, moves under. It’s harder for him to be reached here, not unless they get in truck and drive off, they did that once while he hid underneath and dragged him along by the neck with it.

He gropes the metal on top of his head, touches the boiling ground beneath his hands. His slippers have free and his feet _hurt._ His knees are aching. And burning. He’s burning. His slippers, where are his slippers? He needs them or his feet will get _worse_ oh God.

“Where are they?” He cries “Where are my slippers?” He sobs. They never let him wear them, something’s wrong, things get muddled in his head and he doesn’t know what’s happening.

He curls over under his truck, sobs out gasping, broken things as he fingers clench and unclench on the ground. He thought he was safe, he thought he was safe, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t and now he’s back and oh God, he weeps and howls like a child would, unrestrained and shuddering and hopes, hopes that the truck is enough to protect him, that maybe he can stay there, that they won’t touch him, or hurt him, they’ll just leave him be.

“Tony,” Hammer says and Tony ducks his head into his arm, won’t look at him, won’t “Tony, come out, please, I’m sorry.”

_“How are we gonna do this, hmm?” he sighs “Can you walk or should I get Morgan to drag you?”_

He shudders, gasps, inches further away.

“I— here, Tony, I have your slippers."

Tony blinks. That doesn’t— why does none of this make sense?

“Tony? Honey, it’s Steve.”

Steve was there. He had been there. He had been there while he walked, and crawled, and he had sat with him when he thought he was dying. He had always told him not to give up, even when he said the probably wouldn’t come to get him.

“Steve?” He says, voice hoarse. He opens his eyes, and he’s there, waiting out in the sun while Tony shelters under his truck “What do I do?” He asks, because he doesn’t know, he just knows that the fear all is all-consuming.

“Why don’t, why,” he falters “let’s play a game.”

Tony cries even harder.

“Tony? Tony what’s wrong? Look, I’m going to tell you three things that I can see and then you can tell me three things that _you_ can see, yeah?”

Tony shakes his head “But you’re not _real,”_ he sobs “you’re not _real.”_

Steve hurriedly shakes his head “I am real, Tony, you’re not there, you’re at _home,_ you are in the _tower,_ you are _safe._ ”

Tony breathes, in and out, fast, heavy, the world is starting to spin around him.

“What’s your name?” Steve asks.

“Tony,” he replies.

“What’s _my_ name?”

“Steve.” He blinks.

“Do you know where we are now?”

Tony trembles “I—“

The sand turns to carpet beneath his skin. 

He breathes, in and out, as the heat disappears, the glare of white sun surrounding Steve snuffs out. There’s a ringing in his ears, his face is wet, there’s snot on his face. He is shaking.

“T—tower. This is, this my… Steve?” he says, subdued.

“Yes, Tony?”

“Did I…” he swallows “did I go away?”

Steve is crouched on the floor in front of the bed and it’s ridiculous because he’s so big but he does it anyway and he smiles softly, although his brow is furrowed.

“Do you need help getting out?” Is all he says.

Tony shakes his head and crawls out from under the bed. Out here, everything feels too wide, open. He feels exhausted, in the way that only comes from sobbing, and there’s an aching in his temples, behind his eyes.

He slumps, back presses against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. He can see his bandaged toes, his too-skinny legs, the burns on his feet that are beginning to fade.

“M’ sorry.” He mumbles.

“Don’t be,” Steve soothes beside him “it’s not your fault.”

Tony hangs his head “You wanted me to walk.”

Steve winces “No, Tony, whatever you need to do will come in your own time. We’ll just… you must be tired, here.” And he stands, helps Tony to his feet and positions him on the bed.

The pillow is cool on his cheek and he gives some more, small, snuffles, the last tears rolling down his face. The duvet is thick, crisp white, the sheets are clean. He curls onto his side, faces against the window and shuts his eyes in the hopes of dulling the pain in his head.

Steve crawls in next to him and the feel of his body is the best, it’s the only thing he needs. The weight of another human being as they take him in his arms and hold him tight and say, whisper “It’s okay to cry,” so that his dam bursts again, this time completely, and he cries out all his frustrations, curls his fingers in his shirt, his mouth slobbering all over Steve but not caring, and cries and cries and cries.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the week, Tony is walking.

Albeit, aided by a cane, but walking all the same.

Now, he has other problems.

The first time he goes down into his workshop is a relief. To be in his own space, to have the freedom to do what he wants.

It starts with a niggling at the back of his mind. He wonders when dinner will be.

He’s hungry; nowadays, he’s always hungry. He sleeps too much, eats too much, he eats about five times a day, full meals, and it makes him feel disgusting even though he knows it’s necessary for him to get healthy again.

So when he goes down into the workshop he makes a catalogue of every bit of food there. He breaks out all the energy bars, all the fruit, the drinks, chocolate, everything. And he lays it out on a spare workbench and inventories it.

Just in case.

He wouldn’t want someone to take it, or for it to go missing. He knows it’s unlikely, but still. Better safe than sorry.

And then he sits down to draw up some specs but the niggling feeling won’t leave him be.

Maybe he should move the table closer. That way, he’ll be able to see everything.

So he does.

And then he can’t concentrate so he eats a cookie from one of the packs. And then another. And then another. And then, he can’t stop.

 

* * *

It takes Steve a while to notice.

Tony isn’t filling out quite like he should. He’s getting better, getting stronger, even though he still needs the cane on bad days to compensate for nerve damage. 

He doesn’t realise the extent to which food has become a problem until, one night, awoken by nightmares and ghosts, he goes to the main floor to make coffee.

Which is where he finds Tony, surrounded by cookies and chocolate and bread and leftovers and drinking orange juice straight from the carton.

He tries to make a joke out of it, “Hungry?” he says, but he can see the way Tony’s eyes shutter off, how he looks away, and then, how he throws everything back up onto the floor, retching and gagging until Steve sighs and holds his hair back from his head, fills a glass of water and sets him at the table while he cleans.

“Sorry,” Tony mumbles “you shouldn’t of had to see that.”

Steve takes the seat opposite him, and he’s serious, and he’s not smiling when he puts his hand out on the table, palm up, inviting.

Tony stares at it. Then moves his own hand from the glass to Steve’s palm, grasping tight.

“You can’t do this, Tony. You can’t. You could have told me if… if you were having problems.”

Tony laughs, but it’s sad, and weak, and he shakes his head “I really couldn’t.”

Steve frowns, imploring “Why? Why, I’m here for you, have I done something? Do you not trust me anymore?”

Tony looks shocked, he quickly draws his hand away “No,” he stammers “no, of course not. I, look, I can’t waste your time, Steve. I’m sick,” he swallows, it hurts to say “and I’m not getting better. I can’t… this thing, this _guilt_ thing, you can stop now. I don’t want to waste your time.” He looks down, avoids Steve’s gaze.

“Waste my time?” The other man says quietly “Guilt? No, Tony. No, you’re imagining things, sweetheart,” and he catches Tony’s hand in his again, draws it to his lips. Tony feels them ghost over the scarred knuckles, feels them so gentle against his skin. Steve is always so kind.

“You could… you were never a waste of my time. I sat by your bed everyday, every single day, so that when you woke up _I_ would be the first thing you saw. I never — I felt _guilty,_ sure, I felt like I should have stopped them, found you sooner, but that was never my motivator. Never.”

Tony looks so confused, as if he can’t comprehend the other reason Steve might’ve had for staying by his side for so long. He swallows and shifts on the chair, curls his hands around Steve’s.

“Then,” he blinks, looks down “then why else?”

Steve leans close over the table till he’s inches from Tony’s face.

“You know why.” He says softly.

Tony meets his eyes, bright and wide, glassy, even and he stares with a look of wonderment or something else. “Don’t,” he begs “don’t say that. I don’t… I don’t know what you mean, I don’t, tell me.” He says “Just tell me.”

Steve’s forehead presses against his. The light from the open fridge sends shadows across his face in contrast to the dark of the room. His breath is heavy. The air is heady. They cannot go back.

“Because I love you, Shellhead. I always have.”

Tony stares at him.

“Tell me you love me back.” Steve pleads, gently.

Tony swallows, nods “Yeah, I love you back.”

And then they kiss.

“Why,” Steve gasps against his lips “why do you do that to yourself.”

Tony pulls away, face creased, worn, “Because they didn’t feed me.” He says simply “They didn’t feed me and, and I worry. So I eat, and eat. But I can never keep it down.”

Steve nods against him “I’ll help you. I’ll help you, we’ll figure this out. We can see a therapist. Or, Jarvis can give you reminders. Just, don’t do that.”

Tony nods and moves in for another kiss, their mouths clashing, all teeth and tongue, and heat and warmth, and it’s a contrast, it’s a parallel, because for Tony heat means pain, warmth means hate but now it’s something else, heat is the growing sensation in his belly and warmth is Steve.

Steve holds him, after, and they lie on his bed, Tony’s head in his lap. He plays with his hair.

 

* * *

Tony gets better.

He walks with his cane, now. It’s unavoidable and awful but he makes it work, changes it from the hospital grade to one of his own design with tranquillisers stored in the centre.

Steve says it makes him look refined and Tony threatens to shove it up his ass.

Except one day he gets that familiar feeling at the back of his skull, and he had been doing so well, eating three balanced meals a day, but he can’t resist it, he keeps thinking “what if,” what if what it what if and so he drives to the first takeout he sees and buys ten cheeseburgers and eats them all, wolfs them down in his car in a back alley somewhere in Queens, and after he’s so sick he can’t drive he has to stay in the back of his car and it’s three hours before he manages to get home.

Another time, Steve finds him sobbing hysterically on the floor their kitchen. He’s hunched over and he won’t stop and it’s scary, yes, but not entirely unexpected.

“Tony, Tony, hey, tell me what’s wrong,” he says as he crouches down to meet him.

Tony shakes and cries and won’t look at him. Steve can’t tell if he’s locked in some nightmare, or if he’s embarrassed or if it’s something else entirely.

Shakily, still crying, he gestures to the fridge with a hand.

“I fell,” he sobs “I fell, and, and,” his breath hitches, he inhales deeply “I dropped my eggs, so, I just, I thought, I’m sorry.” He manages from his place on the floor.

“Don’t be,” Steve murmurs, draws him into his lap, placing kisses in his hair.

“Why do you stay,” Tony gasps “why, I’m a mess, I can’t do anything without breaking down, why do you _stay_ you could be, you could have anyone.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Tony lets himself be held. Steve knows this is Tony, testing him, testing the waters. He wants to see how far he can push Steve, to see when he will finally leave, and it makes Tony feel safe, he knows, to be able to tell people’s limits, it’s just sometimes he pushes too far.

 

* * *

The first time they make love Steve unwraps Tony like a present. He drags his clothes off skin, feels the flesh beneath his fingers, the strong muscles, the healthy flush to his body, everything about him that is so perfect.

He counts his scars, kisses them with butterfly touches and maps Tony with gentle fingers until he flies apart with pleasure.

 

* * *

Steve’s heart breaks one night when he wakes up to find Tony crying, silently, hiding his gasps in his pillow, stuffing his fists in his mouth to stop the noises escaping, holding himself tense to stop from waking Steve with his cries. 

It’s been nearly a year.

The nightmares will never leave.

 

* * *

 

So, 365 days exactly to the morning that Steve and Natasha picked Tony up from the desert, Tony goes back.

Steve waits in the car.

He gets out, cane placed on the ground, one step at a time. He walks.

The sun; it burns overhead. Tony feels sweat coil down his back.

His feet crackle over the broken, dusty ground and Tony can almost feel the burning on the soles of his feet. He turns, quickly, to check that Steve is still there, just in case, and he nods from the car.

He keeps on walking.

The two shacks remain unchanged. One small, barely able to hold room for a man standing up. He would know. He goes there first, swings open the door. 

The noose still hangs from the ceiling.

There is blood on the floor, too. His blood, brown and old, crusted into the dirt.

He moves on.

The main shack is still smaller than he remembers. It makes a change, seeing it with his head screwed on firmly straight. He pushes the old door open with the butt of his cane and it twinges of it’s hinges, falls into the dirt.

Inside, not much has changed. It’s eery. Right there, by that table, is where Justin Hammer ripped out his fingernails. And there, on that couch, is where he lay as Morgan worked over his feet with pliers. There is the bloody carpet where they would force him to kneel, laugh at him, squeeze lemon juice and alcohol into his wounds, where they would make him repeat those words, what were they, _I have no friends, I am pathetic, I am worthless_ over and over until they lost all meaning.

It’s strange how innocuous it all seems.

The furniture is thick with dust. Light shines through the broken wooden slats.

He moves out back where a chain still lies. They had tied his hands there, he thinks methodically, they tied his hands behind his back and made him beg and eat food like an animal. 

He keeps walking, then. He walks steadily, cane in hand, limping across the desert. He walks and walks and walks but it’s okay, Steve is waiting for him.

It’s over, then. It’s all over. What is this supposed to be called? Closure. Fine. Closure, he can do that. Acceptance. Finality. After everything, he is here. He is alive. He is well. 

He has friends, he is not pathetic, and he certainly is not worthless. Justin Hammer is dead and Steve Rogers loves him.

Up in the sky, thunder rumbles bringing the promise of rain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> More ridiculous hurt/comfort: [Nyctophobia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2300447/chapters/5060351)


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